


John, after 'the talk'

by Meretseger68



Series: Always John [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Big Brother Mycroft, Greg is called Greg, M/M, Plot Without Porn (again! very sorry), Shy Sherlock, Uncle Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-29
Updated: 2014-09-29
Packaged: 2018-02-19 07:32:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2380040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meretseger68/pseuds/Meretseger68
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft tries to intimidate John. Silly Mycroft. John makes a deduction too many and surprises Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	John, after 'the talk'

The stairs up to the first floor seemed wider than usual. Just a side effect of being the only person using them. John did his best to keep his footsteps steady. After a night in the pub with Lestrade or Mike he might sometimes stumble. This time he’d sobered up before even making it home; the warm comfort of the pub had evaporated in the face of meeting Holmes Major and the fuzziness of alcohol was replaced by a jangling irritation.

If Lestrade was a friend then John was still not sure what to make of Mycroft. Big Brother, literally. Honestly, why the man couldn’t just pick up the phone was beyond John. Butting in his Big Brother nose in his little brother’s business. Like the first night he had had the pleasure to accept a ride from Holmes Major, the very fact of his interference was enough to convince John he must be doing the right thing. Unlike that first time, of course, it no longer occurred to him to try and talk to Anthea. Very unlike that first time, and every other time since, Anthea had stopped him as he left the car.

“I don’t care what he thinks. I think you’re just right for Uncle Sherlock.” That was all. The sum total of her acknowledgement of the world outside her Blackberry - and it had disturbed him more than ‘the talk’ from Mycroft.

John may have been angry at Mycroft (and confused by Anthea) but one look at the slim detective laid out on the sofa was enough to remind him why he stood his ground when confronted by Holmes Major. Did he do it deliberately? John had begun to wonder. The light was dimmed artfully to cast Sherlock’s face into angelic planes, highlighting the dragon slayer’s hands. Frustratingly, Lestrade had told him too much while at the same time being infuriatingly vague about Sherlock’s transport.

John had seen Sherlock in the same pose countless times. How many of those had he been happy, or tired, or carrying the shopping, or even narked at the great daft git he lived with? How many times had he just stood and watched, not wanting to advertise his presence but just to look? Had it only been a week since those lips had forever changed their relationship? Some of John’s good humour returned at the thought of those lips, a feeling he’d begun to cherish … a feeling that said ‘mine’. Silent in the doorway John Watson may have stood a little taller as he contemplated his boyfriend (the word got easier and warmer each time he thought it).

“John.” Eyes dark and shimmering Sherlock returned from wherever he’d been. He took in his companion with a glance, a look of concern replacing his immediate smile. And he was up and across the room, lips placed upon the doctor’s in the briefest kiss – chaste, a little uncertain. Typically Sherlock, it seemed taking the initiative with affection a new and daunting adventure for him. “John. I had a text from Greg. I do hope that Mycroft hasn’t annoyed you too much.”

John took the kiss and was glad of it. He’d been trying hard not to try to classify his strangely innocent boyfriend (that word again though neither had said it out loud). Sherlock had said he wasn’t anything - so Kinsey and Grey-A and all other definitions had been shunted, muttering and grumbling to themselves, to the back of the doctor’s mind. John tried not to think of Mycroft’s derisive tone as they parted. Whatever Sherlock could give would be enough for John.

For once Sherlock didn’t pull away or try to wriggle out of the shorter man’s tentative embrace. Another silent and unacknowledged step in the faltering footsteps of their relationship. Feeling like he’d just stepped onto the moon John rested his head on the proffered shoulder, breathing in the (actually rather attractive) scent of cold pressed angel tears, and warmed his face on the softest blue silk. This was nice. Whatever it was, it was nice. He began to relax.

“Hang on … you said that _Greg_ texted you?”

“Yes.” Above him he could tell Sherlock was starting to do the face. John couldn’t recall when he’d started to find it so amusing. “When you left the pub … just so I wouldn’t worry if you were back late.” He wasn’t that late, the chat had been brief and had included some of John’s favourite one syllable Anglo Saxon words in response to Mycroft’s uncomfortable circumlocution.

“You’ve never got Greg’s name right before. I always thought it was up there in the list of unimportant trivia … you know, like the solar system.” John tightened his arms around the willowy body, just briefly, to let the daft sod know he was joking.

“Oh no, Greg’s always been important to me. He must be to you too … first person you’ve talked to. About us. You know.” The text had been brief but Sherlock recognised that the happy words used in it were genuinely meant.

“Mrs Hudson was the first to know …”

“Different thing, she found us in bed. Definitely doesn’t count.” The week had been an odd one of extra biscuits with morning tea and the sudden appearance of cakes from their overjoyed and still sworn to secrecy not-housekeeper. “Mycroft doesn’t count either. Using surveillance information should have been a clue that his interference was not welcome. I should be angry at him … if he had something he wanted to say then he should have come here himself and said it to me rather than trying to intimidate you.”

“We all know that’s not going to work.” John smiled into the silk. “You’re brother worries about you. He’s just a bigger idiot than you when it comes to feelings and a complete arse when it comes to my feelings.” He paused, wondered if he should bring up the past. “But Greg knew you … before … before you were just Sherlock.”

Things went quiet above John’s head, a cheekbone may have rested – so briefly – on top of his hair. John felt the pressure against his arms and let the younger man go. To try and keep him close, to try and keep him … ah shit. John had no idea what went on inside that curly head, what would be too much for the madman. He didn’t even have a clue how he could do those amazing things to John’s cock and yet be so shy about kissing. He took a breath and opened his eyes, prepared to see Sherlock in full sulk in his chair or – worse – disappearing into his room.

The detective was still in the room. Not in his unassailable chair, but on the neutral territory of the sofa. And he sat and looked at John and the empty area of leather next to him, his face an odd mix of confusion and innocence. “Does it upset you that I knew Lestrade before you?” The switch of name jarred, an attempt at distance that John saw straight through. “He was a friend when I was so far gone I didn’t even have Billy the Skull to talk to. He saw me with nothing. When I was nothing … and he was one of the few who wasn’t disgusted. He helped me when I realised I couldn’t get back out on my own. I didn’t want him to be uncomfortable so I pretended I didn’t remember how Scott ended up.”

Teeth began to worry at that gorgeous bottom lip. A certain doctor tried not to think about how his jeans felt a little too tight, he took up the space on the sofa before he became too obvious. “Oh John. It’s the transport isn’t it? I couldn’t stop him … and that wife going on at him, I didn’t want to fight him or it would have dragged it out longer than was necessary for either of us. I was so tired. That wife!” Long fingers plucked at the hem of the over-washed cotton shirt, faded grey and turned inside out. John still hadn’t been able to work out how many of the damn things Sherlock had. He watched the fingers twine about themselves – alien, fascinating … beautiful hands that seemed so content to touch and stroke the older man but seemed so distressed about their own body. “There’s nothing in here worth bothering with, nothing that’s any use. Nothing that isn’t ugly.”

“Love …” A sigh or a supplication, John wasn’t sure even as he said it. So much packed into four letters. Sherlock didn’t raise his head but turned away from the word. Where to start? How to start? John Watson was too tired to get his head around it. “I’m going to bed. I’m not going to rush you Sherlock but one day you are going to have to admit that ugly is one thing you definitely are not.”

When John got upstairs the bedroom was as he’d left it that morning. Neat. Calm. Empty. He undressed and slid into bed – slightly to the left, leaving enough room in case anyone else wanted to join him. Just over a week ago it had seemed so obvious. Sherlock. There in front of him all the time. After everything they’d been through, always Sherlock for him. Sherlock offering his mouth … his hands ... yet so reticent about everything else. Sherlock ready to respond but not to make the first moves between them.

John didn’t even know when it started, the way the dark curls insinuated themselves into his subconscious, when he began to watch the cupid’s bow as much as he listened to that glorious voice. It was just, after everything ( _don’t think about it, don’t think_ screamed his left hand as it twitched beside him), after so long he’d finally been able to admit it and had been flattered and astonished that the feeling – however much the great lanky git struggled with it – was reciprocated.

Together in the little cocoon of 221B Sherlock was finally like an actor without a script, unable to ad-lib being himself, taking direction from the older man because he had none for himself. Sherlock had been honest with John. Honest about Irene (first pangs of jealousy there doctor?), honest about Janine (the things he could pretend when the script demanded it, but only so far. Sherlock may have been asexual but he was _gay_ asexual – John’s head swam – gay demisexual? He shook his head, that way madness lay.) and very, very honest about not having a clue about himself.

Not Sherlock then, for a change, don’t think about Sherlock. What had Mycroft said? Really. Underneath the bluster and the incomprehension, what had he learned from the diversion on his way home?

“He was always adventurous as a child.” John had immediately had the image of little curly haired pirate. Holmes Major had given him this image quite a while before and John had always like it. “Then the marks started coming up and he began, perforce, to exist one step distant from life. Then there were the other … issues. Quite a cocktail to make my little brother what he is today.”

“A consulting detective?” John hadn’t been certain what Big Brother had been getting at, with his swagger and superior manner … his bloody umbrella.

“A virgin.” Mycroft’s response had been definite, like there could be no change in the status of his brother. Then later, as John remembered the conversation … “My little brother has experienced more than enough as a junkie, been through things for his country that few would be able to walk away from. But this thing you have embarked on …”

“Is none of your business Mycroft.” John had found his voice. He would stand his ground no matter what, no clenched fist to semaphore stress as he faced Holmes Major.

“Of course it is my business Dr Watson. You hurt my little brother and who has to put the pieces together again? Oh Gregory will help, no doubt, but psychology is hardly his division.”

Watson’s response had been to turn and walk away. Better that, he thought, than burn all his bridges with the British Government. The car had rolled back at his side, a faithful dog at his heels and Anthea had opened the door to encourage him in. What had Mycroft been saying to him? Little brother … little …

If there were only two of them then why did Mycroft keep calling Sherlock his little brother? Surely it was obvious? _Ooooh_. In the small room John Watson finally put one and one together and came up with three. Not Holmes Major then. Mycroft and all the pressures of being the middle sibling. Dear God, there was another of the mad buggers out there somewhere. Another Holmes. And Anthea calling him ‘Uncle’ Sherlock. Not that much of an age gap between Mycroft and Sherlock, but an older Holmes might explain Anthea. At the back of John’s mind a silent scream slowly relaxed – he hadn’t realised how much the thought of Mycroft … reproducing … had unsettled him.

There was no way John could sleep, his epiphany needed to be shared. But, what to wear? Pyjama bottoms, dressing gown. Accessible but not aggressively so. A brief check in the mirror to make sure his hair looked suitably mussed then back downstairs to ask Holmes Minor about his older brothers.

“I forgot to tell you …” trying to be casual, probably not quite carrying it off, “mmm … Anthea seems to think I’ll be right for you.” Damn, the git wasn’t on the sofa. John wandered along to the open bedroom door. “Well, she said Uncle Sherlock and I doubt she meant anyone other than y ...” The word died as he tried to say it.

Sherlock was looking in the full length mirror on the inside of his armoire. Sherlock was … Sherlock was … throwing the silk robe back over himself, a flurry of blue in response to the interruption.

“Oh. My. God.” John made it as far as the bed and sat heavily. Neither said anything. Then neither said anything some more. Sherlock stood like a rabbit in headlights, nervous hands clenching the robe closed at neck and waist. John reached out and snagged both ends of the long tie belt – forgotten in the panic as Sherlock covered his shame – and pulled his boyfriend towards him until he stood between pyjama clad legs. Ever so gently John reached up and smoothed the front of Sherlock’s dressing gown and tied the belt at his waist.

“Sherrinford.” The voice came from somewhere above John’s head. He looked up to see Sherlock less doe eyed and more composed. “Anthea is my brother Sherrinford’s daughter. She’s what you might call a symbol of the Anglo-American ‘special relationship’, her mother was a Rhode’s scholar at Oxford and she now occupies a similar position to Mycroft in the American State Department.”

“So one of the Holmes brothers has had sex then.” John tried a smile.

“At least once.” The smirk broke the tension and the younger Holmes joined his Watson on the bed. A long arm snaked around to embrace the older man’s shoulders.

“I just have one last question before I really do go to sleep … we’ve only seen Greg once this week, and we’ve hardly been out of the flat so how did he rumble us?”

“You know he arrived … what, ten – fifteen minutes after you’d … we’d … on the sofa …”

“Yes. I remember thinking how lucky we were with the timing on that.”

“Ahhh, not that lucky. I heard Mrs Hudson intercept him with the offer of tea and a drop scone when he arrived. We might have to hurry up and let everyone know that we’re together now before any more of her ‘not telling’ gives it away.”

Smiles were in danger of becoming giggles. It was time for bed. John curled up to the left of Sherlock’s bigger bed and huffed only slightly at the feeling of silk up against his back after lights were turned out and he became the smaller spoon. It didn’t seem to matter that they might not go to bed together, or to the same bed together, or both still be in the same bed in the morning … or any other combination of how they’d slept the previous week. They were not children (well, most of the time), they were certainly not conventional so, John had decided, whatever they did would be normal for them.

**Author's Note:**

> I've still not read the instructions. Oops. I'm also in trouble with a friend for trying to put this together instead of concentrating on what I'm supposed to be writing ... but I love these idiots (shrugs and gives up).  
> I think I know where I'm going. Sorry there's so little porn. Promise to try and do better soon.


End file.
